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Chapter Fifteen

A Poem for Thee, Mo Chridhe, The quiet o’ my rooms is quieter now, Now they’ve kent the song o’ your laughter and sighs.

The light o’ my rooms is dimmer now, Now they’ve seen the light o’ your bonnie eyes.

The warmth o’ my bed is colder now, Now it’s known the heat o’ your skin’s sweet caress.

But my heart. Aye, my heart is fuller now, Now it’s been blessed wi’ your saft kiss.

As sure as the stars, I’m yours, Malcolm

Malcolm, I wish I had a talent with words as you do, but I fear it is a skill in which I am dreadfully lacking.

But know this, my dear Malcolm: what I feel in my heart for you is anything but lacking.

I think it has resided there all along, though I never had the awareness to realize it—realize it for what it truly is.

All the small moments we have shared over the years—the quiet, innocent moments: a smile, a glance, a jest, a shared understanding—took root in my heart, ever-growing, ever-blooming.

And now, at last, it has been given the freedom to grow as wildly as it desires.

No longer contained. And what I feel for you, Malcolm, cannot be contained. Yours, Lydia

Lydia, I think you highly underestimate your talent, leannan.

Because if you possessed nae talent, reading that letter wouldnae bring about the sweetest ache in my breast. The one that is the purest happiness, yet the softest sadness.

Because every moment with you is my peace, my home, and every farewell leaves me undone.

I miss you even when you’re lying in my arms—my heart in your hand, your heart in mine.

It tears me apart, knowing I won’t get to see the morning in your eyes.

From the beginning, I have only ever been yours. Malcolm

To my Scot, My heart echoes your own. I never thought it possible to think of another as much as I think of you.

I knew it was too much before we even truly began, but now?

I am ashamed to confess that all my thoughts are consumed by you—your letters, our memories, and the promise of our next shared moment.

One day, I hope to wake in your arms. But for now, the timing is not yet ours.

My children need their mother in the quiet hours of the night and the early light of morning.

I cannot bear the thought of not being there should they call for me.

Yet, as they grow and their need for me lessens, I trust that more moments, more nights, will be ours to claim. With love, Lydia

Lyddie Love, Yet one more reason my heart beats for you.

Did you know, mo chridhe, how deeply I admire thee?

The mother you are is a wonder to behold, a love so pure, so unyielding.

It stirs memories of my own ma and the love she held for me.

I would never wish to take that away from your children.

There will be time for us, to be wrapped up in each other, lingering there until the sun bids us rise.

Until then, I will cherish each fleeting moment we have been granted.

I have waited eleven years and five months for a moment with you, and I would wait twice as long if it meant even a single glance or touch.

My heart, I confess, will always hunger for you, for more.

Yet I can wait, mo chridhe. I will wait for as long as it takes, ‘Till all the seas gang dry,’ love.

I will wait for you forevermore. Your Scot